Outside its front door, a sand-filled bucket sprouts dead cigarette butts; inside, a sticky floor and cathode ray tube TV. Malachy’s opens at noon; happy hour begins immediately and lasts for eight hours.
There is an old photograph of Duke Snider (who played for the Dodgers) but it is a Yankees bar described as “great, hands down best, solid, cheap, awesome gem, just like yesteryear, with ‘heavy hand’ drinks” and “a classic dive bar”
These descriptors could apply to almost every Irish Bar, survivors of a day when there were Irish Bars galore, lots with long steam tables keeping hot tubs of soups, corned beef, roast beef, cabbage, mashed potatoes, gravies, every kind of fatty food. Many were first set up during the 1930s and 40s, some survive in their original locations.
When I write Yankees bar, I mean Yankees bar. Don’t go on about the Metropolitans or any other team, and don’t contradict the faulty logic of the ill-informed patrons whose ideas about baseball strategy come from well, Ireland, I suppose. It gets ridiculous, but it’s well intentioned.
There’s an ingrained (or ingrown) sense of comfort, ‘cares abandoned’, laughter and greasy glasses, extant or not.
Malachy’s is a decent ‘period-at-the-end-of-the-sentence’ following a trek to Central Park: visit Strawberry Fields — the ‘Imagine’ mosaic — then cross the street to visit the site of John Lennon’s murder at the entrance to his former home, The Dakota, then a block along 72nd Street to Columbus Avenue and Malachy’s, for a memorial toast.